


Sidecock at The National

by jujubeans



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Boys in Regency costume, Boys unwittingly on a case, Frottage, Love in a gallery, M/M, Oh I know...AtlinMerrick and 221b_hound dared me, Period costume, Rutting, Sidecock, The National Gallery, The riding crop, Yes Atlin...Sidecock!, back-of-hand job, how did this happen?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 11:01:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6903187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujubeans/pseuds/jujubeans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two gorgeous gentlemen in period dress attend a party at The National Gallery.  Of course they're going to shag amongst the art!<br/>OR..<br/>The one where you go to Melbourne to meet two amazing authors, and the word "Sidecock" (ahem) arises, and they dare you, this is what happens...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sidecock at The National

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts), [221b_hound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/gifts).



> Dedicated to the beautiful 221b_hound and the gorgeous AtlinMerrick for their encouragement and friendship (and links!)

A soft exhalation chuffed out in the silence of the gallery.

"Jesus bloody wept," John whispered under his breath, eyes mesmerised by the buttocks straining the stitching of the pantaloons currently lovingly encasing Sherlock's magnificent cheeks. John watched the gentle wobble of said cheeks as Sherlock strode ahead of him, hessians tapping out an echo on the marble floor of the National. 

John's pupils widened as his breath hitched at the undulations, recalling the red-hazed moment of jealousy he'd felt as those buttocks sat atop the 'footman', Sherlock's tan-clad thighs and polished hessians straddling the fellow’s waist as he had a pair of handcuffs slipped onto his wrists by the detective clad in sartorial splendour. Where Sherlock had those cuffs stashed was a mystery to John, as his skin-tight pantaloons, and similarly form-fitting shirt, waistcoat and dress coat left no room for anything but essentials - and even then such things as air for breathing, didn't always make the cut.

Sherlock stood staring at an unfinished portrait of George IV, hands clasped behind his back. The private room of The National Gallery still held a few traces of evidence of the lavish party held within but a few hours earlier. Most of the napkins and stemware had been removed, along with the host, guests, staff and police. A few stray side tables and empty champagne bottles remained to keep the two handsomely clad boys company.

It seemed they were destined to always be on duty. Tonight was supposed to be a thank you party in honour of Sherlock and himself, for the recovery of two stolen paintings. A wealthy collector was about to place two valuable paintings on permanent loan to The National, when they had taken an unexpected detour en-route to the gallery, and the boys had been engaged to recover them. The grateful owner threw a party in the private salon where the paintings were to be displayed - what wonders money could achieve! - and John spent the past fortnight convincing Sherlock it would be rude if the guests of honour weren't in attendance. Admittedly, it wasn't quite as difficult once it was revealed the guests (befitting the era of the artworks) were to wear Regency period costume - Sherlock loved a good excuse to look fabulous in a tailored outfit, and off he hied to his indefatigable tailor.

John had been gifted with Regency regimentals - how fitting - that made him feel quite the thing. A gorgeous uniform coat with buttoned back lapels, snowy white waistcoat, starched frilled shirt and regimental sword hanging from a shoulder belt, made him stand taller and straighter than he'd stood in a long while. The heeled boots and white leather gloves completed the outfit that must have set Sherlock back quite a penny. He held Sherlock's brown leather riding crop, the loop of thonging around his wrist. There had been a small argument over the crop - Sherlock insisting it wasn't a part of an officer's uniform, John firmly stating he wanted to be in the cavalry and besides, carrying the crop made him think of how he wanted to swat Sherlock's generous offerings every time he got a peek at them as Sherlock's frock coat swished, splitting the tails just enough to whet John's appetite. 

The crop was permitted.

Of course, where they were involved, nothing could be simple. Just as Sherlock was starting to get that glazed look in his eye that indicated boredom - approximately four minutes after arrival - John noticed the detective's attention sharpening. His distraction was such that John had to apologetically answer for him several times as they were introduced around by the host. Having reached his limit, John excused them and steered Sherlock toward a quiet corner, only to be informed that one of the footman-dressed waiters was relieving the guests of their valuables. Unfortunately his and Sherlock's idea of a 'quiet resolution' to this situation differed greatly, and now they were the only guests remaining after the boisterous tackling of the ‘footman’, the recovery and redistribution of the pelf, the formal arrest and giving of statements, and the trickling away of shocked and/or excited guests.

Now John found himself and Sherlock alone on opposite sides of the salon. John was sucked toward Sherlock like a puck across an air hockey table. His view of the pantaloons was now uninhibited by the dress coat, as it had been shucked during the tackling. John could see Sherlock's perfect lanky form from the toes of his boots through the charcoal waistcoat with dove grey fleur-de-lis, to the top of his gentle curls, drawn back into a dashing queue. Breathing deeply to steady himself at the arresting sight, John drew up on his left, looking up at the painting that was consuming Sherlock's attention.

"Who painted this one, love?"

"Sir Thomas Lawrence"

"Is that the same bloke who did the ones we recovered?"

"Yes, John, it's the same _’bloke’_ "

John smiled to himself, and dropped his head to hide it. As he tried to control his breathing he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. He cranked his head to the right almost imperceptibly and nearly lost his shit. His eyes almost bugged out of his head before quickly looking up at Sherlock's face to search for a reaction, but the man was stalwartly staring at the Lawrence. John let his eyes drop back to the slack hanging placket of Sherlock's breeches, the lax opening allowing a delicious visual of tantalising Sherlockian Sidecock.

John's breath was quite stolen away. The lacing was so slack John could see that Sherlock's cock was firming, but not yet so firm as to be stiff. It was John's perfect, most favourite state of Sherlock's cock - thickened, so as to have heft, yet not so tumescent as to be stiff beyond pliability. John loved nothing more than taking Sherlock's cock in his mouth in this state, where it was fattened yet supple enough to mold against the roof of his mouth with the flat press of his tongue. That exact perfect state of cock was now visible through the slack opening, and if Sherlock was throwing down his gauntlet then John was absolutely picking it up.

John cleared his throat and had a quick look around. The salon was still deserted but for the two of them. He peeked again at the trews and groaned.

"Hnnnngh, Jesus."

"No, just me, John."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock: Sidecock!"

"Sidecock?"

"God, yes. Delicious, tantalising, plumpened, fat, perfect Sidecock, Sherlock. I'm naming it. It's getting a capital letter and everything. All I can see is Sidecock belonging to you and in a building full of fucking masterpieces it's still the prettiest thing I've seen all day."

"Well don't let me stop your enjoyment, John."

"Didn't you wear any underwear under those pantaloons, you indecent baggage?"

Sherlock huffed. "Obviously not. They would have ruined the line of the fabric."

"You hardly had to go all ‘method’ for fancy dress"

"It's hardly method, John. Haven't you heard of gentlemen having to choose a direction in which to dress?"

"Is one of those directions 'north', love, because that's how you appear to be dressed at the moment?!"

"How droll, John. I _was_ dressed to the left until I heard your breathing change as you watched my posterior earlier. Your panting made my transport decide to re-dress itself northward, John. It's your fault the line of my pants is less than perfect."

"Hmmm well, I shall have to fix that then, won't I..." John tapped the riding crop against his leg twice, and saw Sherlock lose his sass, and swallow, his eyes fixed to the crop.

John swiveled and bobbed in one dashing move, pushing his face into the opening of the breeches. Before Sherlock could comprehend what was happening he pressed a moist kiss to said Sidecock, and dragged a slick line up it with his tongue. Fuck he tasted good. 

John straightened and stepped in close directly behind Sherlock. The heels on his boots gave him a little more height than he'd normally have in this position, and he could hear Sherlock panting as he rested his right cheek on Sherlock's left shoulder. He slid his right hand around Sherlock's hip until it splayed against his belly and the crease where belly met thigh. He placed firm pressure there, pushing Sherlock's plump arse back against his groin.

The crop was in his left hand and he employed it to wiggle its way inside the placket. John trailed the leather keeper down the left side of Sherlock's dick. He could feel his gorgeous boy shudder in his arms. John manoeuvred the keeper until it rested beneath heavy, full testicles, raising and lowering the crop's shaft to create a gentle bouncing of the balls sitting on the fold of leather.

"Joooohnn."

"Hhhmmmm, love?"

"Oh John, much more of that and I'll be ruining the pants further."

"Well I'd better help you stave that off for a bit, hmm?"

John gently removed the crop from Sherlock's pants and flipped it in his hand. He lifted it to Sherlock's lips and growled, "Open". Sherlock complied, opening his mouth to receive the shaft of the crop across his lips. "Now, bite down". Sherlock bit. And groaned.

John slid his left arm diagonally over and across Sherlock's heaving stomach until his hand settled over the centre of his chest. "Now listen carefully to me, Sherlock. First, I want you to loosen that gorgeous cravat so that I can suck on your beautiful neck. Do it." Sherlock immediately raised his hands to fumble with the length of linen, drawing it down and to the side, and undoing the collar button of his shirt, exposing the left side of his neck for his John. John rewarded him with a soft kiss and a lick. "Perfect. Good boy," John murmured against Sherlock's neck. "Next, I want you to place your hands on the backs of my thighs and leave them there until I say otherwise. Do you think you can do that?"

Sherlock nodded against John's lips. He obediently placed his palms on his own thighs, running them slowly down and up again, then dragged them around over his side seams, over John's, and back to curl his fingertips around the backs of John's inner thighs. It was John's turn to shiver. He reached up and removed the riding crop from Sherlock's teeth.

"Beautiful. God, I'm starting to understand why women go ape-shit over this gear. You look like Mister fucking Darcy."

"Huh," Sherlock panted breathlessly, "does that make you Wickham, in those regimentals?"

"Well I don’t know about Wickham, but I'm certainly feeling wicked, if that's close enough?" he growled against Sherlock's cheek, and gave a tiny nip to the skin of his jaw. He could feel Sherlock's chest rising and falling rapidly, his hips shifting restlessly. His beautiful little baggage liked being told what to do every now and then. "Now, speaking of close enough, distract yourself by telling me what you know about this painting, Darcy." 

"Uh, oh John... well, the subject is King George IV, although at the time of sitting he was The Prince of Wales, Prince Regent. The uh... John that's too... oh it's not... err, Lawrence was painting his profile, which was intended for a medal that was never struck, he... nnnf! God I - ohhhh, Johnnn... "

John was busy grinding his very impressive erection into Sherlock's arse, grinding in small circles as he pulled Sherlock as close to him as two men in Regency costume could possibly be. John's brass buttons were pressing into the back of Sherlock's waistcoat like hard little conkers, and his white gloved fingers were probably leaving imprints on Sherlock's hips.

"Keep going, love"

"But- oh, well it's all a matter of perspective, John. Sir Thomas was criticised for being too flattering in his portrayal of the Prince, as he was known to be overweight and... that's so... it was said to be too elegant a likeness but - uh – oh oh oh ohhh - the perspective of the artist is...the perspective, the perspective, John. John. Please."

"Oh, when you beg so nicely... Here, remove my glove for me, love." John splayed his hand and placed the tip of his index finger in front of Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock bit delicately at the seam until he could feel John slide his finger slightly down the leather. The middle finger was presented and again, Sherlock carefully took the tip into his teeth and held while John's finger slid down. After the ring finger was done, Sherlock re-bit John's middle seam-tip so that John might remove his hand from the glove. John reached up and took the glove from his teeth. “Perfect boy,” he whispered, lovingly stroking the soft kid across Sherlock's lips and down the side of his face. Sherlock heard the gauntlet plop to the floor.

Next John re-took the crop in his left hand by the tip, and skimmed it down Sherlock's body. He carefully lassoed the leather wrist loop around Sherlock's balls and cock, then reached up and tapped the keeper against his lips. "Open up again, love. That's it. Perfect. Keep that between your teeth until I say. Now tilt your head back a little, I want some tension on your balls. That's it, just right." The riding crop was now vertical along Sherlock's torso, straining between his teeth and testicles. It was an arresting sight. "God, if only I could take a photo of this, you sexy piece. If you want to stop, just tap me on the thigh and we'll stop immediately. OK, beautiful?" Sherlock grunted.

John pressed Sherlock back against him again with his right hand, whilst reaching into the pantaloons with his left. He touched the tips of his fingers to cock, feeling the straining length against his sensitive, recently un-gloved skin. He knew Sherlock was close. It wouldn't take much to tip him over the edge, and John wanted to be right there with him.

He crooked his fingers and turned his hand so that only the backs of his knuckles skimmed Sherlock's delicious Sidecock. His right hand rose to run through curls, tugging until a few spilled from the elegant queue. "Look at you, you juicy thing, you! Looking all wanton and dishevelled for me. Your cheeks are all flushed, your-" he bit down on the tendon standing out on Sherlock's neck, "-neck is straining, you're absolutely panting for me to let you come, aren't you," John whispered against his ear. Sherlock groaned around the leather keeper and ground his hips back against John. 

John was mesmerised by Sherlock's wantonness. He marveled at how openly Sherlock displayed his desire so unashamedly to John, obeying his commands, trusting him unreservedly, throwing himself into the scene wholeheartedly. It threw John into a tailspin, his breath catching, his emotions welling... John suddenly couldn't think straight, his arms full of twisting, heaving perfection. He babbled.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, what are you doing to me? My beautiful boy, my gorgeous marvel. You're being so good for me. So perfect. Look at you. You want me to see you, don't you. You want me to see how affected you are, how much you want this. You get off on me knowing how much you get off on me knowing. Oh God," John groaned into Sherlock's neck, pressing kisses up and down the length.

Sherlock hissed around the crop as John continued to run the backs of his curled fingers up and down the side of the now leaking cock. "Come on, Sherlock. I know you're close. (kiss) You're going to come for me soon. (kiss, kiss, stroke) I want you to ruin those bloody breeches for me. I want you to come all over my fingers and the crop handle. (kiss, stroke, grind) I want to see you lose it here in the salon of the National Gallery, with me kissing your neck and barely running my fingers up and down your delicious Sidecock. (kiss, grind, grind, stroke) Come on, baby, show me what you've got. When I say, you're going to lower your head so we can give your balls some slack, and then you're going to spill everywhere for me, aren't you?" Sherlock nodded frantically. "OK, love, slowly now, (stroke, stroke, grind, grind) there you go, lower your head further, that's it (kiss, stroke, stroke, grind, bite) Agh! Oh, that's it, now come for me, gorgeous!"

Sherlock thrust his hips back against John and circled, pulling him closer with fingers that were still wrapped around the backs of his thighs. John grunted into his ear and Sherlock saw stars, coming and coming almost untouched, but for the gentle stroke of John's knuckles down the side of his cock. John's talented artistry inspired his subject to paint himself with his own undoing. He'd never been so seduced by words, by feelings, been so wrapped up in the web John wove with his words and commands and... God he was still coming, still jerking and grinding into John - John! Had John...? Yes, he could deduce from John's breathing, not to mention a certain warmth pressed into the seat of his pants, that John in fact, had.

"Ooh…" Sherlock panted and shook as he felt John gently unhitch the wrist loop from around his balls. He heard the crop clatter against the floor. He felt John's hands smooth up his stomach and over his pectorals, coming to rest over his heart, cupping the thud under his palms. He could feel John rest his cheek between his shoulder blades then, after a while, press a kiss to the nape of his neck, nosing his queue out of the way.

"I like this," he grinned, nosing the queue again. "It's very dashing."

Sherlock finally released John's thighs and reached up to place his hands over John's. "John, I..." He swallowed.

"Shhh, Love. I know. Me, too."

"But John, I've never... that was... " Sherlock growled frustratedly. He was so shit at feelings. His John was so good at them, and he was so pathetically hopeless at them.

John slipped his hands from under Sherlock's and moved to stand in front of him, holding his face in one gloved and one un-gloved hand. "You're not, you know," John hummed quietly. "You're not as shit at feelings as you think. I know what I just saw. I can tell what you want me to know, and that's what's important, isn't' it." He smiled encouragingly at Sherlock. "I know you love me, right?" Sherlock nodded. "And I know you know I love you, right?" Another nod. "And I know you love what we just did, yes?" An enthusiastic nod. "And I know you're going to let me take you home, strip those pantloons off, turn them inside-out, put them back on you loosening the lacing on the other side, then let me at you again, aren't you."

This elicited a disdainful verbal response. "Back on, John?! But they’re ruined. Why would you want me to put them back on?"

"Well, Sherlock, all that talk you did about artistic perspective makes me want to exercise my artistic rights and view your Sidecock from another perspective. See how I get on with your crop right-handed..."

"Yes, John" Sherlock whispered meekly, shivering coyly. “I never stifle natural talent.”

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: OMG I forgot the MOST important thing! The phrase "Sidecock" was coined during a conversation about 221b_hound's unbelievably hot story, "The Gentleman's Guide to Breaking in a Suit" in the Captains of Industry 'verse. Inspired specifically, by this line here: "John slips his finger beneath the leg of the panties, and presses a soft kiss to the side of the shaft thus revealed." *shudder* How could I not think "SIDECOCK!" ??! The whole series is overwhelmingly wonderful. Go read it right now!


End file.
